The Barbary Pirates eg-4

by William Dietrich

  We were dizzy from heat and angry excitement, swaying from thirst and hopelessness, and blinking against flies that swarmed to drink our last sweat. Finally our quartet of savants was shoved and whipped up the steps and onto the platform, the remaining buyers groaning and hooting at our lack of fitness. We did not appear to have half the endurance of a normal seaman. Who wants a scientist as a slave? The auctioneer began with a sigh of determination, barking and singsonging to the assembly. They shouted insults and mockery, hoping to drive our price down. The betting was that we’d go to the quarries and expire in weeks.

  “We’re finally in hell,” Cuvier said, eyes closed against the mob. “Not Thira, but here.”

  “No,” said Fulton. “Hell is coming.”

  I looked where he was staring. The crowd’s noise abruptly hushed as a giant breasted the bidders with the heavy, swaying gait of an elephant. His shoulders were wide as a door, his bald head gleamed, and his torso was a crosshatch of tattoos and scar tissue. There was an odd paleness to him, like a cave being who rarely sees the sun. His eyes were tiny in his brutal and rumpled face, but they had the look of dull cunning the vicious sometimes muster. His hands and wrists looked capable of bending steel, his nose mashed, his lips heavy like a grouper’s, and his muscles swollen as if pumped full of bile. There was a muttering of fear as the crowd hastily parted, and then it was quiet enough to hear the creak of chain as the impaled sailor, still dripping blood, made his last instinctual twitching above this ghastly scene.

  “It’s Omar,” I heard the pirates breathe. “The Dungeon Master.”

  “Too ugly for a mother to love,” I whispered.

  “Too ugly to have been born at all,” Cuvier amended. “He emerged, I’m guessing, like maggots from the dung.”

  The giant pointed at us with a finger thick as a small pistol, and we realized we’d been noticed after all.

  “Yussef Karamanli says the little ones are for me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  If the hold of Dragut’s ship had been claustrophobic, and the slave market of Tripoli wretched, Omar’s dungeon was infinitely worse. Its tunnels had been hewn by Carthaginians, Romans, Visigothic barbarians, Arab jihadists, and Turkish overlords over a score of centuries: a labyrinth of sorrow gnawed by generations of jailers and prisoners like termites into wood. Each tyranny had added a descending level, so each sin and cruelty could be hidden farther from the light. We were not marched but dragged to this hive in the bowels beneath Yussef’s palace, and were not thrust into a cell but pitched into a pit, a rock well slimed with dripping spring water that made its sides too slippery to climb. The bottom was ankle-deep in mud and sewage. We mostly felt this instead of saw it, because there was no light except the reflection of torches somewhere far overhead. The pit’s smell was peculiar, an odor of carrion and reptile, stale and prehistoric, so perhaps animals were sometimes kept there. No creature was in the pit now, which is just as well because we probably would have eaten it, killing the beast bare-handed and chewing it raw. The sweat from the rock was our only drinking water—we had to lap it like dogs—and our first food did not come for two days. We finally heard the shuffle of a troglodyte guard above and saw something tumble down in the dimness. We had the wit to catch what was a stale, weevil-infested loaf of bread, enough for two or three mouthfuls for each of us. The worms represented more nourishment than the rancid flour they’d fed on.

  We wolfed down our share without tasting.

  Our quartet barely said a word in our despair, so the primary sound was the screaming and begging of Yussef’s enemies being tortured somewhere above. Omar himself had been immensely strong and immensely silent, flinging us into our misery without a word of explanation. He’d seemed not so much cruel as indifferent, as if the suffering he oversaw never registered on the animal lobe of his brain.

  All of us were sick. Humans cannot live long in a wet, stinking pit without inhaling from its vapors all kinds of pestilence, as any doctor will tell you. Our occasional shouts to summon help or explanation were ignored, and we wondered at times if we’d been entirely forgotten. When the future is uncertain, the present is misery, and time creeps like a slug. Even had we wanted to betray our navies, there was no opportunity to do so. In any event, the four of us pledged again not to betray the secret of the mirror as a way of fortifying our spirits.

  “Better this pit than dishonor,” Cuvier said heavily.

  “No Englishman would imperil his navy,” Smith added.

  “Nor an American betray his nation’s cause,” said Fulton.

  “Well said,” I confirmed. “Though a little negotiation wouldn’t hurt, if we could get out of this slime hole and properly pay them back.” They didn’t respond to this, given that they hadn’t much use for my ideas anymore.

  We did try standing on each other’s shoulders to reach the lip, but even with a precarious pyramid that had Cuvier, the lightest of us, reaching for the top, we were still too short. There was no shovel to pile sand, and no sand to pile in any event. There was, in short, no possibility of escape, and no communication. Didn’t they want ransom? Had they given up trying to corrupt us to betray the secret of Archimedes?

  And then they did break my will, but in an entirely unexpected way.

  Time had disappeared, and existence in the hole had become synonymous with eternity. Then, without warning, a chain rattled down, rusty and thick. Omar shouted in a deep voice, “Gage, alone!”

  “What’s this?” Cuvier asked, with just a hint of suspicion.

  “Perhaps I’m the first to be shot.” I could think of worse things, like staying where I was.

  “I read they decapitate,” Smith said.

  “Oh.”

  “It’s very quick.”

  “Ah.”

  “Maybe they want to torture you,” Cuvier speculated.

  “Remember our pledge, Ethan,” Fulton warned. “We dare not help them.”

  “You remember it, too, when you hear my screams.” And with that I grasped the chain, wrapped my legs around its links, and shouted. Omar hauled me up the slimy walls of our well, with me rotating so I was thoroughly smeared with filth. I was weak by now from lack of proper food and water, and had a hard time even holding on. My companions feared for me but also followed my ascent with envy, as if I’d been given leave to levitate to someplace that wasn’t just an endless, hopeless now.

  I knew better.

  The Dungeon Master seemed to fill the pit’s tight chamber, his teeth yellow, his breath stinking, and the skin of his palms thick and hard as boot leather. He clamped his paws on the back of my neck as if it were the scruff of a kitten, half lifting and paralyzing me, and I’d no doubt that should I not go where he pushed, my head would be snapped from its stalk. He began shoving me up a rock passageway.

  “Torture doesn’t work with me,” I tried in Arabic.

  He used his other hand to cuff me with the power of a bear, the blow leaving my ears ringing. “Silence, pretty one. Time enough for noise.”

  I saw no advantage in following his advice. “I have powerful friends, Omar, with money to buy not only the escape of us savants but a life for you, too, if you go with us.”

  Now he stopped, holding me at arm’s length, and regarding me with squinted disbelief. “Look at me. Where else could I possibly be?” And then he slammed me back against the tunnel wall, my poor head bouncing, and dragged me even more roughly than before. “I told you not to talk. It makes it worse.”

  I was taken past horrid iron machines stained dark with blood, and heavy doors with small barred windows from which insane gibbering escaped. How can people invent such places, let alone administer them? Then we turned into a side rat hole and he pushed me ahead down a tight spiral to a new chamber lit by a tiny slit far, far above. The single ray of light just emphasized the grotto’s darkness, its vaulted ceiling stained black by the smoke of two millennia of torches. There was a rude wooden table in the chamber’s center, with manacles at each of its corners.
To one side was the glow of a forge on which sat a bubbling pot, giving off noxious fumes. Iron implements were thrust into the coals. My courage, never all that vast to begin with, was starting to shrivel.

  I was slammed down on the table and chained helplessly in place, my throat and belly and privates exposed to whatever deviltry this dim monster could invent. Never had I felt so helpless! The tiny window made things worse, reminding me there was a different world beyond. From a beam overhead swung metal implements designed to pierce, pinch, and cut. I wanted to scream already, and nothing had yet been done.

  “Soon you will talk more than you believed possible.” Omar, clinical as a doctor, pumped air into the coals with a bellows, sparks dancing. He slipped on a heavy leather glove and lifted out an iron bar like a fireplace poker and brought it over to where I helplessly waited.

  He held it above my eyes, letting me see its glow. “Each time I do this, I learn ways to prolong the pain. Victims can live for days. Yes, Omar is not as clumsy as he once was!” The hulking brute nodded. “By the time I’ve had the last of your friends, I will make it last a very long time indeed; so long that I will become bored before they finally die.”

  “We wouldn’t want that,” I managed. My throat was dry as dust, my muscles cracking from tension. “Finish us quickly, is my advice.”

  “You are lucky you are first, while I am still learning. We will experiment with pain. And a handsome man like you needs a mirror, so I will bring one after my branding so that you can weep at the ruin I make of your face. My goal is to make you even more hideous than me. You will blister and infect, but I keep maggots to eat the corruption. It makes you last longer.”

  “Thank goodness for maggots.” It was a wheeze.

  “I am told you pride yourself with women, so I have tools to mutilate those parts as well. The groin is a locus of agony, and always elicits the greatest screaming.”

  I was near to fainting. “Can’t you just kill me? Beheading, Smith read.”

  There was a hiss and I jumped, the poker thrust into a pail of water and then reinserted in the coals. “Why would they need the skill of a Dungeon Master to do that? Anyone can hack off a head with a sword. It is torture that is an art. The shame of mutilation. The peeling of flesh.”

  “Omar, please, I’ll pay anything…”

  He was rummaging about, clanging and clattering his tools of torment. I squeezed my eyes shut. I could hear the scrape of coals, and smell the fumes. Something hissed like acid. Then there was a long silence. I tensed to wait for the first excruciating assault.

  “Of course,” Omar said as if the idea had just occurred to him, “there is one other way.”

  My eyes opened. “What? What?”

  “Perhaps you would once more speak to the mistress.”

  “Mistress?”

  “The pirate queen, Lady Somerset.”

  I was sweating. “Yes, yes! To her and Yussef! We’re the kind of men who should be ransomed, not tortured! Omar, let me see them, please! I’ll explain it is all a misunderstanding! We are really quite valuable!”

  “I think they will find you as annoying as I do, and give you back to me to do as I wish. Unless you please them very much.”

  “But that’s exactly what I do! I please people!”

  “While you talk with them I will think of new ways to hurt your friends, in case you can’t come to agreement. I would like to hurt your friends very much.” He grinned like a maniac.

  “No, don’t hurt my friends! Let me talk to Aurora!” By thunder, I’d tup the girl sideways and upside down, clenching my teeth while I did it, if that’s what it took to get off this torture table. No need to talk about ancient mirrors when I could just rely on my charm…

  Suddenly janissaries entered and the manacles were unlocked from my shaking limbs. I felt utterly depleted, even though not a scratch had been inflicted. Omar lumbered off to attend to some other wretch while the Tripolitan guards hauled me upright with looks of disgust. I was shuddering. None of them called me pretty.

  “Strip off your rags, American,” they ordered.

  My hands were shaking so badly that they ripped my garments for me. Then they sluiced me with buckets of water again, the same rude bath I’d had on Dragut’s pirate ship. Filth streamed off until I finally stood abject and naked, shivering, ashamed at my weakness, and terrified of what might come next.

  “Put these on.”

  I was dressed in Moorish bloused trousers and a sleeveless vest, my chest bare, and given sandals for my raw feet. Maybe I’d have to turn Muslim after all! Then four of the soldiers formed a little box around me and we went up a flight of stairs. Realizing it must lead to the castle, I began to take note of where we were.

  My escorts didn’t speak. The passage grew less gloomy as we climbed, arrow slits giving light, and I couldn’t help but have my hopes soar, even as trepidation grew. What was the point of seeing Aurora again? What could I agree to without betraying my country? Why had I been hauled out of the pit instead of someone more famous and reputable, like Cuvier? Because I was the weakest? But I had a reputation as a hero of Acre! None of it made sense. I blinked against the growing light, realizing just how dark and troll-like our lives had become. I felt confused, exhausted, and desperate.

  A door opened, small enough that we had to squeeze through. Two soldiers filed before me, two behind. This corridor wasn’t much broader than my shoulders and again had no light except from an oil lamp. Was this a secret passageway? We came to an iron grill at the end that my escorts unlocked and then locked behind. Then we climbed a winding set of stone stairs. Yet another door was unbolted, this one wood, and at first I thought beyond was more darkness. But no, it was simply a tapestry covering the door. The cloth was swept aside and I was pushed through into some kind of reception room, this one brilliant to my eyes even though the sunlight was filtered through wood-grilled windows. I blinked. There was blue sea and sky beyond, and my heart quickened, even as I tensed for a sudden blade or shot. Were my captors simply giving me a last cruel glimpse of this sweet earth before sending me off it?

  Not yet.

  Aurora wasn’t there. Instead, I was face-to-face with Hamidou Dragut, our traitorous sea captain. He lounged on a cushion in what I realized was the richly decorated throne room, picking from a bowl of figs. My stomach growled at the sight of them. The room’s floor was strewn with thick Persian carpets and its marble walls were decorated with incised Arabic script that quoted the Koran. There was a gilded throne chair, the cerulean silk of its cushion embroidered with gold and its legs and arms studded with jewels. In one corner of the chamber was a leopard, lying on the cool floor and held to a pillar by a golden chain. Behind was its brass cage. The cat looked bored.

  I’d come from hell to an odd little heaven.

  Dragut looked me up and down. “She will be very disappointed. The pit has not improved you.”

  I worked to keep any quaver from my voice. “Aurora Somerset is always disappointed. It’s her nature.”

  “Don’t let your tongue betray your last remaining chance, American.”

  Sometimes I can’t help myself, and my grit was slowly coming back. I was jealous he had figs and I was starving. “To be a slave to that woman, like you?”

  He darkened. “I am no slave, and would die before becoming one.”

  I took breath. “Tripoli is a nation of slaves. I could tell that much just marching from the harbor. Endless castes, each man quailing before the other, and your women bagged and hidden as if they carried the plague. You’ve never tasted freedom in your life, Dragut.”

  “On the contrary, Monsieur Gage!” It was a new voice and I swung around. A door to the throne room opened and in strode the man I’d seen in the slave market on his white horse, Bashaw Yussef Karamanli himself. He was, as I’ve said, fit and handsome, a dagger in his sash and a sword at his side, and carried with him that confidence that comes from being born to royalty. Two powerful guards, one blond and one black, flanked hi
m. His sword belt was studded with diamonds, and his turban had that jewel the size of a robin’s egg—emerald enough, I guessed, to put me in high style the rest of my life if I could ever find a way to snatch it. He also had the ruthless look that is inevitable to men who cling to power in dangerous places. He plopped onto the European throne chair while a janissary gave a blow to the back of my legs, forcing me to my knees before him. My head was wrenched down in obeisance.

  “In this country each man enjoys the freedom of knowing his place and role, unlike the chaos of democracy,” Yussef went on with a scholarly air. “And our women have a freedom yours can’t imagine. Yes, they are covered, but that means they can go anywhere in the city without being recognized, meaning they are free from malicious gossip and disapproving eyes. Behind the veil they have a liberty no American or French woman enjoys. They are mistresses of their houses, and in the cool of the evening they emerge on the screened roofs to talk and sing in a world free of harassment from men. No woman can keep secrets more readily than a Muslim woman, no woman is happier, and no woman is better protected by her husband. You will see if you take the turban. We have a harmony, a serenity, unknown in Europe.”

  My head came up. “I’ve experienced Aurora’s serenity.”

  “Ah. Lady Somerset is…unique. And no Muslim.”

  “And she has nothing to say to you, at least not yet,” Dragut said. “That will await some sudden birth of reason on the part of yourself and your companions. No, I brought you up to confer first with someone quite different, to see if we cannot be partners.”